


With Mirth and Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come

by CactusFlowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CactusFlowers/pseuds/CactusFlowers
Summary: That stopped the rogue in his tracks, and he turned again to face Varric who was rubbing his hand over his face. There was that tension again, in his chest and in his shoulders, and it dawned on him that this was Hawke, his best friend. If he were to screw this up, if something were to happen--he couldn’t handle not having Hawke in his life. Varric realized he had to make a decision, and that there was only one way he might not totally wreck his relationship with Hawke.He waved his friend over, “Sit, sit down. Wait, no. Grab that whiskey from over there, and come sit down. I’ve got a story to tell you and I don’t feel like being sober when I tell you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Jules, because I promised this fic like 2 years ago and never finished it until literally last night.
> 
> I hope it doesn't suck too horrifically, though it is un-beta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my copies of the games, nor am I affiliated with Bioware. I'm not profiting from this work, I'm just playing in someone else's sandbox for a minute.

It had arrived with Varric’s latest reports, a note, quickly scribbled on a half sheet of parchment. 

 

_ Varric, _

_ I can’t see you. Not now. Busy with work, stuck in Orlais. _

_ B. _

 

Varric knew that handwriting well, as well as he knew the woman behind the writing. When they were sending letters back, Varric quickly understood the quirks in her writing. Long, detailed letters meant she was bored, and the short ones meant she was busy, usually with work. He also grew to understand that the main difference between the types of letters had less to do with her workload and more to do with the state of her marriage. 

 

Varric had always blown it off because  _ Bianca didn’t love Bogdan _ , or so he would tell himself. Though the years went by, and their meetings and their letters had become fewer and farther in between, he’d convinced himself that she was just as desperate to be with him as he was with her. But something about that letter--that short dismissal--had made Varric begin to question that.

 

He’d been stewing in his room in The Hanged Man, looking at the note, looking at past notes from Bianca, and switching to desperately trying to think about anything  _ other  _ than Bianca when Hakwe knocked on his door. Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, and probably the best friend Varric had ever had, was hard to ignore and harder to say no to. And if Varric were being honest, his friend was a welcome distraction from the mess he’d begun to realize his life was. 

 

“So, up for a game of Wicked Grace? I’m certainly in a drinking mood,” Hawke announced, one hand reaching up to stroke his beard, the other on his hip. He must have just finished his patrol with Aveline and Donnic, despite his not being in the city guard. Varric knew, though, that it was a ploy to get Aveline to finally spit her feelings out. Varric knew how hard that could be because as easy as he was with his words on paper, well, there very few things came out of his mouth that weren’t wise cracks or silver tongued quips. 

 

“When aren’t you in a drinking mood?” Varric chuckled, not really feeling the humor but going through the motions. 

 

Hawke looked at him for a minute, his hand still in his beard. He had a nice beard, for a human. Bartrand had always made a point of picking on Varric for not growing a beard, he had said it was because he was born to the surface, that since he wasn’t born in Orzammar he wasn’t a true dwarf and therefore wasn’t able to grow a beard. Varric had believed him for a long time before deciding it was a stupid thing to feel bad about, especially since he had plenty of hair elsewhere. But there was no denying that there was a certain appeal to facial hair, if done right, and Hawke’s looked...well, it looked good on him. He couldn’t imagine anyone else trying to pull off that look and succeeding.

 

Then again, Varric could be biased.

 

Hawke hummed slightly before moving forward to look at some of the letters strewn across the table Varric was sitting at, “You know me, Varric, never one to turn down a drink with a friend.”

 

“Never one to turn one down with a stranger, either.”

 

Hawke put his hand to his chest, an exaggerated look of incredulousness on his face, “Why, I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating,  _ Master Tethras _ .”

 

Varric answered with a wry laugh, feeling some of the tension he’d been feeling in his chest and shoulders ease. Something about Hawke just made sense to Varric, the  _ click  _ between them had been instantaneous almost. There wasn’t anything Varric wouldn’t do for Hawke, and something in Hawke’s eyes as he watched him across the table said that Hawke felt the same way. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Hawke asked after they lapsed into an unusual silence.

 

Varric raised his eyes from the letters on the table to the man who hunched over them. He thought about telling Hawke the whole story, telling him about Bianca and their affair, but he couldn’t--not yet. Maybe one day he would, but right then he couldn’t. 

 

“A long story, one I promised never to tell, and it seems like it’s coming to an end,” Varric sighed, pushing the letters that were in front of him away. He splayed his hands over them, eyes raking over each page, not really focusing on any of them but noticing the difference in the ink, the slant of the handwriting...he’d been gone on her for so long, he thought,  _ And these letters--and Bianca--are going to be all I’ll have to show for it, isn’t it? _

 

What Varric didn’t expect was to feel a large hand cover his own, grasping his fingers gently. Maybe there could be a different ending to this story after all. With Hawke, anything felt possible, even if he was a walking disaster almost everywhere except the battlefield. 

 

“If you ever want to tell it to me, I’ll make the time to listen,” Hawke promised, Varric could see that much in his eyes when he looked up.  _ When did he get so close? _ Hawke was a pain in the ass--and sometimes an idiot, but he was an honest idiot, and there wasn’t anyone else in Thedas that Varric trusted more. 

 

It happened in a flash, Hawke’s lips on his own, dry and a little chapped, but warm as they moved against his. It took a second for Varric’s brain to catch up with what was happening, this was Hawke afterall. Varric would have guessed pretty much anyone else in their little band of misfits was the object of Hawke’s affections, and it wasn’t as though Varric made his  _ commitment  _ to Bianca a secret. Still, he responded quickly, kissing Hawke back, getting caught up in him--and for a minute he’d forgotten all about his troubles with Bianca. 

 

To Varric’s dismay, the kiss ended almost as soon as it had begun with Hawke pulling away and looking contrite. Well, as contrite as Hawke could manage with the look of “I’ve just been kissed” written all over his face.

 

“Well, you can put that into your stories, eh?” Hawke tried to laugh, tried to brush it off. 

 

“Hawke--”

 

“I know you’ve got,” He gestured to Bianca who was resting on her stand in the corner, “ _ Her. _ ”

 

“Hawke,” Varric tried again, but the rogue put his hands up to stop him.

 

As Hawke turned to leave he finally managed to vocalize his regret, “I’m sorry.”

 

Varric slammed his fist on the table, “Don’t be!”

 

That stopped the rogue in his tracks, and he turned again to face Varric who was rubbing his hand over his face. There was that tension again, in his chest and in his shoulders, and it dawned on him that this was  _ Hawke _ , his best friend. If he were to screw this up, if something were to happen--he couldn’t handle not having Hawke in his life. Varric realized he had to make a decision, and that there was only one way he might not totally wreck his relationship with Hawke.

 

He waved his friend over, “Sit, sit down. Wait, no. Grab that whiskey from over there, and come sit down. I’ve got a story to tell you and I don’t feel like being sober when I tell you.”

  
  


The story ended up taking the entire evening to tell since Hawke kept interrupting with his smartass comments, but halfway through they stopped abruptly and Hawke’s entire demeanor changed. He looked angry, and hurt, which Varric wasn’t sure  _ why _ he was either of those things since nothing he was describing had happened to him. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Hawke stared at him for a second, his cheeks were flushed pink from the whiskey, his eyebrows nearly knit together in consternation, “Nothing, keep going.”

 

“No, Hawke, something is bothering you, what is it?” Varric poured himself another shot of the whiskey, they were about done with this bottle, Hawke had hit it pretty hard in comparison, but Varric wasn’t going to mention it.

 

“I just--I guess I just don’t understand. You--you bend over backwards for her, and what, she just doesn’t show up to the wedding? She marries Bogflan, or whoever, and leaves you high and dry, while keeping you as a side piece. What kind of person does that?” Hawke runs a hand through his hair, then over his face, like he was trying to wipe away some of the haze from the alcohol that even Varric himself was feeling.

 

Had he been sober, Varric might have gotten mad at the slam against Bianca. Had Hawke been sober, Varric doubted that Hawke would have even said a word about it. So Varric decided that he wasn’t going to worry about it, because it wasn’t anything he wasn’t already thinking. 

 

Varric only shrugged and poured himself another shot, “Bianca, apparently.”

 

They lapsed into a silence that was not entirely comfortable, but neither of them felt a nervous need to fill the air with nonsense. Varric picked the story back up after finishing the bottle and grabbing a new one off of his shelf. He was going to be hungover tomorrow, and so was Hawke, but at least they didn’t have any world ending dilemmas to solve just yet. 

 

“So, that’s it. That’s the story, that’s why I can’t tell anyone about her, or  _ her _ ,” Varric finished with a somber wave of his hand towards his crossbow. 

 

“You’re a better man than I,” Hawke mumbled, scrambling to his feet to make for the door. 

 

Varric felt his mouth go dry but he wasn’t going to chicken out, he’d been thinking about it since Hawke had kissed him--though now his intentions were much more innocent than before, “You could just stay. The bed is big enough for two--you.”

 

Hawke smiled slightly, his cheeks still pink though his eyes looked clearer, “Okay.”

 

He watched as Hawke began to take the rest of his armor off, the things he’d left on just in case someone came bursting into The Hanged Man looking for him to save their asses. The daggers, the gauntlets, it was all piled neatly near the end of the bed, leaving Hawke just in his small clothes. 

 

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed, Varric,” Hawke stated with more authority than he usually used with the dwarf.

 

“Which side do you sleep on?” He asked when Varric didn’t respond. 

 

“The middle,” Varric chuckled to himself. He pried himself away from his table and shirked his duster for a lighter weight tunic. 

 

Hawke was already making himself comfortable in Varric’s bed, laying stomach down with his hands under the pillows. His feet hung over the edge of the bed, but if that bothered him he didn’t say anything about it. Varric watched as his friend buried his face deeper into his feather pillow, eyes closed, and breathing deeply. He kicked off his boots, and then debated about whether or not he should leave his breeches on. Hawke wasn’t wearing his, but then he’d never known to Hawke to be shy about anything--not that Varric was shy, just that he didn’t know how things were going to be with Hawke after everything and he didn’t want to make things worse by making them more... _ uncomfortable _ .

 

“Just take them off and get in bed, I want to turn the light out,” Hawke called from the bed, and for a moment Varric let himself pretend that this was the relationship he’d had all along. Hawke fussing over him, not putting up with his shit,  _ actually showing up to their wedding _ \--no, he couldn’t think like that. Bianca--he loved her, he would  _ always  _ love her, but she messed him up, and he was beginning to realize that. Hawke deserved more than second place because where Varric stood, that was all he would be able to give him. 

 

Varric waved his hand like he was trying to wave away the thought, and did as Hawke told him to because who was he to defy the Champion of Kirkwall? He turned the lamp out before sliding into the bed next to Hawke who seemed to be asleep already. He let out a breath of relief as he got himself comfortable, berating himself for forgetting to untie his hair before laying down and fiddling it loose and undone while trying not to disturb Hawke. 

 

“I’m not sorry, you know,” Hawke’s voice seemed to come from out of nowhere, and Varric nearly hit himself in the face in surprise. 

 

“For what?” Varric rasped, trying to catch his breath and get comfortable again.

 

“Kissing you. I don’t regret that, even if you do.”

 

Varric chewed the words over in his head for a while, trying like hell to think of something to say, and as soon as he was about to respond, he heard soft snores coming from the other man and decided it could wait. He settled down into the mattress, trying his best to stay on his side of the bed, and waited for sleep to come. 

  
  


Varric woke up realizing that he was stroking the hair on Hawke’s arm, which was conveniently wrapped under his arm and around his chest. One of Hawke’s legs was also thrown over his hip and tangled between Varric’s own legs. Hawke was a warm, solid weight against his back and trying to figure out how they had wound up this way only served to worsen his headache. The other rogue was still snoring, meaning he was still asleep but now that Varric was awake he needed to get up. He tried to gently pull away from Hawke, but he only held onto Varric tighter, rolling his body so that he was more on top of Varric than next to him. 

 

It was slightly distressing to feel his friend’s morning wood pressed into his side, though he could hardly blame him, he had his own--all it meant was that he had to take a piss, not like Varric needed to read anything into it. 

 

“Varric?” Hawke mumbled, still half asleep. It was that that made Varric realize he was stroking Hawke’s arm again, making tiny circles with his thumb where he was holding his wrist.

 

“Yeah, get off me, I gotta take a piss and I’d rather it not be in my own bed.”

 

Hawke rolled off Varric, a cool rush of air hit Varric’s back and a wave of goosebumps prickled his skin. His tunic clung to him, damp from sweat, and Varric wanted nothing more than to crawl back to Hawke’s side to warm himself up again. Instead, he pissed in the chamberpot and pulled on his breeches before Hawke woke up. 

 

Varric realized that Hawke is not a morning person. Sitting straight up, hair all tousled, sheets wrapped around him like it was the latest Orlesian fashion statement, rubbing his eyes and yawning, and the man was  _ still  _ half asleep. The sight of it made Varric chuckle under his breath and his chest squeeze. He loved Hawke. Not like before, when he loved Hawke as his friend, as his brother-in-arms, as his most trusted confidant--he  _ loved _ him. Maybe not in the way he loved Bianca, but shit, who says that’s necessarily a bad thing? Or maybe it was the hangover talking, or the way he looked in the morning light, wrapped in Varric’s sheets. 

 

His head was spinning, he needed some air, some time to think, and maybe another shot of whiskey. No, that was a bad idea. He just needed to clear his head, get out of his room for a while so he called out to Hawke, “I’ll be back, make yourself at home.”

 

Varric shrugged his duster on, grabbed his dagger and shoved it in it’s sheath before looking guiltily at Bianca where she sat in the corner, and left his room and The Hanged Man without another word. 

 

Being outside didn’t help much because everywhere he went he was hearing bits of conversations about how  _ wonderful  _ The Champion is, how  _ funny  _ The Champion is, and  _ did you hear about how he took down the Invisible Sisters?  _ Because he wasn’t already feeling bad enough about his conflicting emotions towards the man. 

 

He noticed Merrill walking along one of the rooftops, ball of twine in her hand.  _ Oh, Daisy _ . She looked up to Hawke, they all did in their own way. Varric literally looked up to Hawke, but that was true of most anyone who wasn’t a dwarf. Still, he couldn’t help but imagine their faces if Varric ever broke Hawke’s heart. The disappointment, the anger, the absolute confusion on Daisy’s face as she asked why, over and over again because she just couldn’t comprehend  _ Varric  _ hurting Hawke.

 

Hawke was his best friend, no reason for that to change if it didn’t have to. No reason for it to change if Varric could avoid it.

 

When Varric got back to The Hanged Man he made a beeline for his room, not looking at Isabela who was sitting with Fenris in the back as if sitting in the darkest corner meant no one could see what you were doing. Hawke was still in his room, there was a half eaten breakfast tray on the table where his letters from Bianca were last night. The letters themselves had been neatly piled into a stack and placed on the other side of the table. 

 

Hawke was sitting in the chair he’d sat in the night before, reading what appeared to be a draft for one of his books, “There’s some left if you want, I don’t know if you ate while you were gone.”

 

If you asked Varric later what had come over him, be it some touch of The Maker’s hand or an Elven god come to direct his actions, or a spirit guiding him, he’d tell you whatever version he thought you’d like best. In truth, Varric saw this man who had endured things no living person should endure, and yet he managed to still be one of the sweetest, kindest, snarkiest people Varric had ever had the pleasure meeting. And to Varric, to simply call this man his best friend--for once--was an understatement. 

 

He  _ loved _ Hawke, and he need that to be known. 

 

Varric crossed the room and kissed him deeply, trying with all his might to express in that one kiss all of the revelations he’d had, all of the revelations he was still having, and how they’d (basically) added up to the same conclusion:  _ I love you. _

 

Hawke pushed at his shoulders, then tugged at the lapels of Varric’s duster, humming frustratedly through their kiss and Varric finally caught on. His duster fell to the floor unceremoniously, and he quickly began toeing off his boots. 

 

Varric broke the kiss abruptly, “Andraste’s tits, I should close the door.”

 

He shut the door and locked it, though anyone worth their salt could pick it-- _ Not sure they’d like what they got if they did _ , he thought. He turned around and Hawke was lifting his tunic over his head, revealing more of Hawke than he’d ever seen. There were scars, and freckles, and patches of skin that looked lighter than the rest. Varric wanted to map it all out under his hands, his tongue, he wanted to know Hawke’s body as well as he knew his own, and he wanted Hawke to know his the same way. 

 

Hawke lead him to the edge of his bed before leaning down to kiss him again. He let Varric guide him down to sit at the foot of the bed, kissing him slower, softer than before. Hawke’s hands tugged at Varric’s tunic before slipping underneath to run along his stomach and hips. He groaned at Hawke’s touch, desperate for more, yet desperate to savor this moment. 

 

Varric pulled away just long enough to finally lift his shirt over his head and Hawke’s hands immediately went to his chest, his fingers catching lightly in the hair there. He dragged his blunt nails down Varric’s chest, catching his nipples by accident on the way down, and while that wasn’t normally his thing, Varric wasn’t above asking him to do it again because it had felt  _ good _ .

 

Hawke pulled him down for another kiss, this time Varric’s hands were the one’s that went exploring up and down his abdomen and chest. Varric had thought he’d miss the feel of tits in his hands if he ever slept with man, but with Hawke it didn’t matter. If Hawke had been an elf with the ears or a qunari with the horns, it wouldn’t have made a difference--Varric was in love with Hawke. Period.

 

Varric felt as Hawke’s hands began to wander lower, untying his breeches and pushing them down his hips ever so slightly. Hawke had him at a disadvantage, he was still in his small clothes while Varric had gotten (almost) completely dressed, so there was less for him to take off of the human. Hawke, however, seemed quite content to undress Varric  _ and  _ himself. 

 

Varric watched while Hawke laid back on the bed and lifted his hips to wiggle out of his small clothes only to proceed to finish pushing Varric’s breeches down along with  _ his  _ small clothes. The next thing Varric knew a warm hand was wrapped around his half-hard cock, stroking upwards at kind of an odd angle. Varric grabbed Hawke’s face with both hands and kissed him, his nervousness bleeding through. 

 

“Hey, hey, we can slow this down if you want, or stop. There’s always that option,” Hawke said into the space where their breaths mingled after breaking the kiss to touch his forehead to Varric’s. 

 

Varric’s eyes were closed, listening to the rumble of Hawke’s voice echo through the vibrations in his skull, “I’m fine, I’ve just never done--,” men, “-- _ this _ before.”

 

Hawke laughed softly, “We’ll go slow, I promise. Just tell me if you want to stop, I’m not into it if you’re not into it, okay?” 

 

Varric nodded, his stomach had been turning slightly because of his nervousness, but now, it was more because he was excited. Hawke shimmied his way up the bed before laying back on his elbows, Varric following, kneeling on the mattress between Hawke’s legs, leaning over to kiss him while he took Hawke’s length in his hand. He gave it a tentative tug, feeling it harden more and more as he stroked Hawke gently. 

 

“You know, I haven’t a damn thing to get my hand slick, let alone anything else,” Varric warned, trying to laugh, but it just came out broken and breathy. 

 

Hawke only laughed and said, “Here,” before flipping them so that Varric was on his back. Once Varric got his bearings, Hawke kissed him again; slowly, sweetly, then followed by a series of kisses from his jaw to his chest, and it wasn’t until Varric noticed that Hawke had shimmied down the bed that he realized where exactly this was going. 

 

“Garrett.” Varric groaned. It was all he could do as Hawke was pressing slightly wet kisses down his sternum while his hands ran up and down over his ribs.

 

By the time Hawke made it to his hips, Varric thought he was going to finish, right then and there, for how turned on he was. And Hawke was just inches away, but the dwarf was starting to get just the littlest bit impatient. Well, Maker, who was he kidding? He’d been impatient since Hawke had kissed him the night before. Now, it just feels like he’s being kept in suspense because Hawke--while the embodiment of the sun that shines over all of Kirkwall, he is also a huge asshole who would do precisely that. 

 

Varric’s theory was proven right as Hawke skiped right over the now throbbingly hard cock in front of him and went for the sensitive skin of the dwarf’s inner thighs instead. Maker believe him, Varric had been as patient as anyone could be before he said again, more urgently, “ _ Garrett _ .”

 

That had gotten Hawke’s attention, so the other rogue finally looked up at him with those blue eyes that were clearer than any water Varric had ever seen. Of course, he looked up and then gave him the wickedest grin as he took Varric’s cock in hand and licked a long stripe from base to tip. Varric shivered but couldn’t look away as Hawke then proceeded to take his entire length in his mouth with one fell swoop. 

 

The sensation alone was enough to send Varric’s head spinning. Hawke’s mouth was warm, and wet, and perfect, and the man clearly knew what he was doing as he kept Varric on the brink of climax without letting him actually tip over. It was the sweetest type of torture, but one that Varric was quickly losing interest in. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was he wanted, but he  _ wanted _ , and he didn’t hesitate to tell Hawke this. 

 

Hawke pulled off of him with a different grin now stuck to his face, and Varric put all thoughts aside except for the one where he had to kiss that stupid look off of Garrett’s stupid face. He beckoned Hawke to come up and kiss him, and that was when Hawke--beautiful, wonderful, idiot savant Hawke--took both his now hard cock and Varric’s in one hand, lined up together, so that they could rock against each other. 

 

Varric could have cried for how grateful he was for the friction except that Hawke was now kissing him, and all he could do was pant and moan and try not to get facial hair in his mouth. Everything he’d thought about Garrett’s beard before is completely taken back. He hates facial hair on his face, and if it were anyone  _ but _ Hawke, he’d have never made it past that first kiss like this.

 

But the two of them worked like that, using what little lubricant they could from the pre-cum they were both emitting quite freely now, pushing against each other trying to find the best friction they could. Until Hawke brought one of his hands down to wrap around them both again and that was when Varric came with a shout, his muscles convulsing in his abdomen like he’d just been shocked by a trap.

 

Hawke worked him through it, pressing kisses under his jaw before latching onto his shoulder with his teeth and biting gently as he came with a guttural sound that reverberated in Varric’s chest. Everything about it had been perfect, but if Varric could have changed one thing, he would have wanted to see Hawke’s face as he came.

 

“That can be arranged, you know, there is always next time.” Hawke laughed as he sat back onto knees so that he was looking Varric full in the face.

 

Varric propped himself up on his elbows, confusion on his face, “What?”

 

“And if you don’t like my beard, I’ll shave it. Not without some complaining, but...yeah. I would do that, for you.”

 

Varric let himself fall back onto the bed as he covered his face with his hands, “Maker, forgive me.”

 

Hawke gently pulled the other rogue’s hands from his face, his smile alone was bright enough to light the entire room--no, the entirety of Lowtown, “For what? I quite like listening to you talk, especially unfiltered when you’re waxing poetic about me. Though I’m not sure I like being called an idiot savant, but I know it was said with love.” 

 

“It was, you know,” Varric said, suddenly very serious, “Listen, I know this...whatever this is--it’s new, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t...doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

 

“Only took you three years to figure it out,” Hawke smiled before kissing his cheek.

 

“Never said I was the smartest dwarf, only the most cunning, handsomest, and most charming dwarf.” Varric chuckled and Hawke only hummed in agreement.

 

“So, when do you want to go again?” Hawke asked, feigning innocence--as  _ if _ .

 

“Whenever you want to go and get proper lube, sweetcheeks.” Varric laughed as Hawke pulled a face and grudgingly pulled himself from the comfort of Varric’s bed to put clothes on enough to walk back to Hightown.

 

“And bring back lunch while you’re out, this is hungry work!” Varric called as Hawke began to leave, only to have a piece of bread leftover from breakfast thrown at him. He caught it, laughing, before looking over at the pile of letters on his desk and laughing again.

 

Well, shit.

 

If this was how Varric was going to get old--okay,  _ older _ \--well, he could think of worse ways to do so. For the first time in longer than Varric cared to remember, he thought about a shared future with someone who would actually be there, and he felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. Yeah, he’d have to deal with Bianca at some point, face her wrath or indifference--at this point, he cared for neither--but he knew, whatever may come, Hawke would be there by his side.

  
And Varric laughed.


End file.
